


when the sun sets, we’re both the same (half in the shadows, half burned in flames)

by humanveil



Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: s04e06 Back from the Undead, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 20:43:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14089278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: His hand is unsteady as it touches 10K’s neck, his touch light. He’s trying not to think of his own arm, of the wounds that still hurt, of the way the skin itches. He’s trying not to think of how they got there.





	when the sun sets, we’re both the same (half in the shadows, half burned in flames)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I couldn’t get out of my head. 
> 
> Title taken from Tamer’s _Beautiful Crime_.

There’s a gun on the floor, his coat thrown and discarded beside it, the handle of his cane glistening under what little light remains. Murphy sits, his back to the barrier, the wooden panels digging into flesh, leaving behind imprints in the muscle. He should move, he knows, but he doesn’t much mind the pain. Not now.

The truck is a useless little thing: small, unstable, and running on its last leg. But it’s the only working vehicle for miles either way, so it’ll have to do. He’d chosen to sit at the back because he likes the open road, the wind, the feeling of freedom. Because the front only fits two and he still can’t quite look at Warren without wanting to blame her, without wanting to have someone to blame.

Doc is with him; the kid, too. They’re sat on either end, curled in the corners of the bed, their bodies hunched and obviously exhausted. Doc’s asleep—had taken Warren’s advice to get some rest, but 10K isn’t. Murphy can hear him: his breath, the scratch of fabric against wood, the rhythmic tapping of his hand against the body of his gun. It blends with the rest of the world around them, with the crunch of gravel beneath tires, the squeak of metal as they drive. Murphy listens, breathes, watches the road pass them by, his gaze fixed on the darkening horizon. On the hues of red, yellow, orange that still paint the sky.

He’s trying not to think about it.

It’s easier said than done.

Time passes in a slow crawl, vacated cities and zombie infested towns the only thing to see. Murphy ignores it—it’s nothing new, nothing special, nothing he cares about. He focuses instead on the sounds, the endless span of sky. There’s nothing better to do.

He could sleep, knows he needs it, but if he sleeps, he dreams, and if he dreams—

_Lucy._

“Water?”

The voice is unexpected, unanticipated. Murphy blinks, turns. Finds 10K with his arm outstretched, one of their last remaining bottles of water held in one hand. He’s waiting, watching, his expression expectant. But Murphy doesn’t move—is too busy staring at 10K’s hand, at the span of skin where his sleeve has ridden up, the faint, circular marks that taint his wrist. Evidence of the bite mark Murphy had left there two years ago; the act a desperate measure. A last resort.

A moment passes, a second and a third, but Murphy still doesn’t move, not until 10K starts to lower his hand. He darts forward before 10K can retreat, curls his fingers around the kid’s wrist, presses his thumb against the skin there, just like he had back then. He can feel the pulse; feels it accelerate.

The container of water clatters to the ground, discarded, but it’s easy for Murphy to step over it, to move closer. 10K doesn’t talk, doesn’t move, but his eyes are wide and his body tense, like he’s prepared to defend himself if he has to. Murphy wants to laugh at the thought, can feel it itch at the back of his throat: quiet and humourless and _sad._

He drops 10K’s wrist, reaches instead to grab hold of the kid’s collar. His fingers tangle in the fabric, clutch it, twist it until his hand is a steady pressure at the base of 10K’s neck, until 10K is forced to lower his head. Offer a better view.

Murphy leans in, can feel his breath quicken until it comes in pants. He’s staring, his grip loosening slowly as he stays fixated on what remains of the bite mark on 10K’s neck. It’s faint: little white lines that mark out teeth, the scars barely visible in the diminishing light. But Murphy can see it clear as day, can still picture when he did it. The sinking sub, the bloody bullet wound. The hasty decision to save him, rather than let him drown.

Murphy inhales, exhales. His hand unsteady as it touches 10K’s flesh, as the pads of his fingers trace along the scars. He drags his nail across it, scratches the skin gently, leaves a new mark. He’s trying not to think of his own arm, of the wounds that still hurt, of the way the skin itches. He’s trying not to think of how they got there.

“I did it to save you, you know,” he whispers, murmurs. His voice so soft he barely hears it.

He can feel 10K halt, doesn’t need to see his face to see the expression: the raised brow, the widened eyes. The look of surprise, both because of what he’d done and because he’s telling the unguarded truth for once. Murphy feels the tension start to leave 10K’s body, feels him start to calm under his touch. He drops his hand, lets his palm graze the kid’s back before he pulls away, sits back.

“Murphy—” 10K tries, but the words die on his tongue, the sentence cut short as Murphy turns away from him. The act a silent request to stop.

He moves away, sits at the back of the bed, his legs dangling off the edge as they carry on down the road. Behind him, 10K settles back in his spot slowly, his clothes rustling as he moves.

Murphy can feel him stare, knows he’s watching.

Neither of them say a word until their next stop.

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos = ♡♡♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/irnstrk) / [tumblr](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/)


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